


Clinging to the Moment

by a_static_world



Series: This Life That We've Created [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BOTTOM GERALT RIGHTS, Birthday Fluff, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, F/F, Family Fluff, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, I literally cried writing this, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kid Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Kid Fic, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, SO MUCH FLUFF, dads! they're dads!, its. so sweet.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24309724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: Twelve. Their little girl was turning twelve, and to Jaskier it seemed that the past ten years had been a blur. If he was honest, he barely remembered that first winter at Kaer Morhen.or,Ciri's birthday is coming up, Geralt has a series of crises, and a rather unexpected guest makes an appearance.PART TWO of the This Life That We've Created series, but can be read as a standalone!
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg/Original Female Character(s)
Series: This Life That We've Created [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752847
Comments: 30
Kudos: 358





	Clinging to the Moment

_ Twelve _ . Their little girl was turning  _ twelve _ , and to Jaskier it seemed that the past ten years had been a blur. If he was honest, he barely remembered that first winter at Kaer Morhen, aside from a lingering feeling of permanent sleep deprivation and the fond memory of Eskel accidentally teaching Ciri to say  _ fuck.  _ Which she’d then repeated, constantly, for the next week, to the witchers’ delight and Jaskier’s chagrin. It didn’t help that she mimicked Geralt (as she did with everything), growling it around the keep like a wild dog.

Mmm, memories. It had taken them a couple years to settle down; few towns seemed keen to house a witcher permanently (bastards), and those that accepted the witcher-ness were not generally so kind to the, ah, nature of their family (again, bastards). By the time Cirilla turned five and  _ really _ started to ask questions about why dad came home covered in goo and guts, they’d found a small village along the Gwenllech and began to put down roots.

The village, Rodzinne, had been in sore need of a blacksmith. Geralt could do that, the people seemed nice enough, and they were only a few days’ ride from Kaer Morhen, where they’d decided they’d winter every year. They moved in midsummer, into the cottage adjacent to the smithy, which to Jaskier’s (and an ever-curious Cirilla’s) delight, had ample space for a garden. 

There they’d been, these past seven years. Rodzinne had no school, so Jaskier volunteered to teach the few children along with Ciri, and they soon established themselves as “those nice folk, down the lane.” And now they were just a few days out from Cirilla’s twelfth birthday; she was currently outside, playing knucklebones with the other village children, hair plaited neatly down her back and shining in the sun. 

Jaskier watched through the kitchen window as she stood, dusting off her trousers and running for the house.  _ Late for lessons _ , he thought, eyes crinkling at the corners as he grinned, elbows-deep in dishwater. He winced as the door slammed open and shut. 

“Cirilla, darling, gentle with the-”

“Hi, papa, have you seen dad?”

“Out back with Gerald, dear. Be careful!”

She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before taking off again (which she still had to stand on her tiptoes to do, thankfully). Melitele  _ above, _ you’d think the girl was incapable of walking. He heard the clack of training sword against wooden dummy (named Gerald, which was his idea) start in the backyard, along with the low vibrations of Geralt’s voice that Jaskier was pretty sure he could hear from a hundred leagues away.

Ciri had been  _ begging  _ for sword lessons since she was eight and first saw Geralt wield his. There’d been a, ah,  _ delicate  _ situation, where a rather rude nobleman had seemed to think he could pull Geralt of Rivia out of retirement. Neither of them had been aware Ciri had crept out of her room, nor that she was awake at all. But she had been, and she’d unfortunately witnessed Geralt come rather close to cutting the man’s hand off before he left. 

Fortunately for them, the incident had not caused nightmares, though the guilt in Geralt’s eyes had stayed for weeks. What it  _ had _ caused was Cirilla Fiona Elen Rhiannon of Lettenhove-Rivia asking, five times a day, seven days a week, for sword fighting lessons. Enough so that there had been a household ban instated: she would receive lessons beginning on her eleventh birthday, so long as she did not ask for them  _ once _ until then.

Surprisingly (or perhaps not so, considering Geralt had  _ also _ raised her), the little girl had carried out the task, and so for her eleventh birthday received two new books, a pastry, and sword fighting lessons from dad every Friday. Jaskier had convinced Geralt to start small; they began with sticks, learning posture and footing and basics and all the grueling work that had made Jaskier so despise it as a child. 

Now, though, she’d progressed to wooden swords, and was  _ astonishingly _ fast and accurate, as the quick-fading bruises on Geralt’s arms could attest to. It made Jaskier woozy, a bit, to watch them; he loathed the day she would be allowed to use a real sword. He knew, however, that Geralt had already fashioned a dagger for her upcoming birthday, spending hours hunched over with a tiny pot of blue paint, putting little bluebells on the handle. Gods, he loved that man.

The water had gone cold around his elbows as he snapped his thoughts back to party-planning. He’d sent word to Vesemir, reminding him of the surprise, and asking him to pass similar messages onto Eskel and Lambert. Ciri loved her de-facto uncles and grandfather more than anything, and for good reason; they spoiled her rotten each and every winter, making Geralt and Jaskier wince with every pony and sweet sent her way. So, naturally, he’d invited them to her birthday.  _ As a treat _ , he thought, chuckling as he heard the rate of clacking wood increase. 

“Emotion,” Geralt sighed, pushing open the back door and propping a hip on the counter where Jaskier was washing dishes. Jaskier pulled his arms out, flicking water onto the other man’s face before leaning in and kissing him. 

“It’s a hard thing for a nearly-twelve girl to control, love. She’s just barely begun to think that Szymon, the baker’s son, is ‘cute’.”

“She-  _ what _ . When did she say that?”

“Oh, the other week. Relax, darling, it’s a schoolyard crush, it’s not like they’ll end up married. She’s got  _ far _ too much life left for that.”   
“You run the school, Jask, put an end to it.”

Jaskier snorted, grabbing Geralt’s jaw and wiggling it back and forth. 

“Absolutely not. Now un-tense that face before you get a headache, and go teach our girl how to beat up boys.”

Geralt only hummed, relaxing marginally before grabbing a peach and walking back outside. Jaskier returned his attention to the dishes. Hopefully Vesemir had reached Eskel and Lambert; he’d sent the letters a few months ago, to be safe, but Melitele only knows if they’d gotten anywhere. Oh, well. There would be a cake, courtesy of Jan the baker, and Jaskier had ordered some new (age-appropriate) adventure books through the bookshop. Combined with Geralt’s dagger, a new song, and her uncles and grandfather, well. Jaskier was feeling pretty fucking pleased. 

“You’re not allowed to marry the baker’s boy.”

Geralt stifled a smile as Ciri dropped her sword and flushed bright red.

“That’s another lesson. Keep your emotions in check; whoever you’re fighting will not give you a breath, will not give you time to blush about a  _ boy. _ ”

Ciri picked the sword up, rolling her shoulders back and flicking her braid over her shoulder. Oh, she was  _ pissed _ . Geralt might actually get a bruise from this one.

“I’m done with Gerald. Your turn, dad.” 

Melitele protect him, for the underworld hath no fury like an eleven-year-old teased about liking boys. Apparently. His body slid into fighting stance, knees bending and forearms raising of their own accord. He wore pads, more for Jask’s sake than his, because he fucking  _ hated _ that little wrinkle in his forehead that would come out whenever Geralt got hurt. 

He nodded, barely shifting out of the way before the sword  _ wooshed _ by his ear.  _ Too close _ ; they had a “no-hitting-dad-in-the-face” rule that was inexcusable, and the deliberately close swing had his jaw tensing. He pushed back, forcing Ciri to shift her footing, shift her grip as he ducked and weaved. He’d be proud, he  _ was _ proud, but her hits kept coming purposefully near to his head. Concussed was  _ not _ how he’d like to spend her birthday, and he doubted that grounded was how she wanted to spend hers.

“If me getting married is such a big deal to you, why aren’t you and papa married, like Szymon’s parents?”

If he wasn’t trained to be an unflappable fucking killing machine, he would’ve wavered. Instead he dodged her sword, ignoring her grunt of frustration. She was cheating, trying to shake him off his footing. So he doubled down, moving faster, eternally stepping just out of her reach. Usually at this point he’d let her land a hit or two, keep her spirits up before he let her take a break.

The antagonism kept him moving. She was panting, now, getting sloppy as she failed to hit him. She’d give in, soon, and they could have a nice chat about purposefully being an ass and why that was  _ not _ what you wanted to do. He focused his hearing on Jaskier singing inside the house, let the sound drain some of the tension in his muscles. 

After three more failed attempts to knock his head off, Ciri screamed and flung her sword across the yard. Geralt barely registered the outburst before she was running into the house, slamming the door behind her. Well. That could have gone better. Jaskier poked his head out the door, brows knitted in concern.

“Care to explain, love of mine?”

Geralt sighed, sitting down on the grass as Jaskier moved to join him.

“I teased her about the boy, to prove a point about emotion. And then she almost hit me in the head, on purpose, and so I refused to let her hit me on the pads, and then she said something about us not being married, and I doubled down.”

“Oh, dear.” Jaskier murmured, threading a hand into Geralt’s hair and stroking softly. He was silent for a moment, Geralt using the space to tip his head against the bard’s shoulder. 

“You two are  _ far _ too much alike; she idolizes you, you know. And she’s very sensitive, I think, about this boy, it was a bit unfair to use him to teach her a lesson. Still, she knows the rules about head-hitting, and slamming the door was  _ entirely _ out of place. I can go talk to her, if you want?”

“Better let me. One of us has to be the good one, still.”

And it was a marvel, really, that his tone held no bitterness, no tang of self-loathing coating his tongue. It was a joke, and he meant it as a joke, and Jaskier laughed gently before standing and extending his hand. 

“Up you get, you big bad witcher. Your adversary awaits.”

Geralt allowed Jaskier to pull him up, wrapping an arm around his waist as they walked towards the cottage. 

“Any word from Vesemir or the others?”

“Not yet. But if witchers are one thing, it’s driven; I’ve no doubt they’ll show up in spectacular fashion and spoil the ever-loving  _ fuck _ out of our daughter.”

Jaskier detangled his arm from Geralt’s waist, watching him walk down the hall and knock softly on Ciri’s door before entering. He’d never doubted for a second that Geralt would be a good father, no more than he’d doubted himself, but it still amazed him how much the man had  _ changed _ . Gone was the bitterness, the uncertainty, the self loathing that had haunted him for so long. This Geralt was softer around the edges, content to share his burdens with others. 

He’d seen a flash of the uncertainty, though, when Geralt’d said Ciri brought up that they weren’t married. It had never bothered Jaskier; they’d always just... _ fit _ . There was no question of fidelity between them, no real reason to get well and properly married, besides the jewelry. Geralt had made him a replica medallion, with a buttercup on it, and Jaskier never took it off. That was good enough for him, really. 

He grabbed the water bucket, tapping twice on the threshold to let Geralt know he was going out, and headed to the well. His garden needed watering, and Geralt and Ciri would likely talk it out for the next hour, at least. They were so much alike; passionate and brave and curious, and with a fucking stubborn streak three leagues wide. He shook his head, propping his bucket on the lip of the well and starting to turn the crank. 

“Hello. Do you know where I might find the Princess Cirilla of Cintra?”

“Fucking  _ shit _ .” Jaskier swore, straightening up too fast and slamming his head against the wooden crank. A woman stood behind him, violet eyes glittering in the evening sun. She wore a dress more accustomed to a coastal court than the barely-hot northern climate, and looked not  _ nearly  _ travel-worn enough to have journeyed from there to here. Still, something about her made Jaskier want to trust her.

“You’re speaking to one of her fathers; you can call me Jaskier. May I help you?”

“I’m Yennefer of Vengerberg, mage of the Cintran court, sent here by the Queen Calanthe and King Consort Eist to check on their granddaughter.”

The woman- _ Yennefer _ -had clearly rehearsed the speech, shoulders thrown back and jaw set as if she expected a fight. Jaskier sighed; he’d wondered how long it would take Calanthe and Eist to track them down. Ten years, apparently. 

“Come with me.”

His garden could go another day without watering, he supposed, and he could always send Geralt out later. Yennefer seemed surprised, masking it well as she fell into step beside him. 

“The Queen wishes to see her granddaughter, wants to raise her a proper Princess of the court.”

“We’ll let Cirilla decide that, I think. Would you care to stay for supper?”

Oh, Jaskier was enjoying this. Yennefer bristled more and more every kind word he extended her; he almost felt bad. Almost. But if that bitch Calanthe had sent a godsdamned  _ mage _ to fucking...retreive Ciri, like she was a dog, like Geralt was  _ dangerous _ -

He cut himself off as they approached the front door. He smiled brightly at the mage, ushered her in the door. Luckily, Ciri and Geralt were there, sat at the kitchen table with Geralt’s book of herbs and medicinal plants. The witcher’s jaw tensed as he took in the stranger in their home, Jaskier watching him take stock before flicking his eyes to the bard, making sure he was okay. Adorable.

“Princess Cirilla, the Queen your grandmother-”

“Cut it, lady. What business do you have here?”

Jaskier almost laughed as Geralt growled, Ciri’s face clouding with confusion. They’d explained to her, as soon as she was old enough, where she came from, how they’d been lucky enough to be her parents. There had been some, ah,  _ confusion _ , as to why she hadn’t come out of Dad’s tummy like the washerwoman’s baby had, and Jaskier had to bite the inside of his cheek, remembering the look on Geralt’s face. 

“Princess, your grandmother wishes your presence at court.”

“The grandmother who gave me up? That one?”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up entirely of their own accord. Apparently the girl was  _ not _ over her lessons, Melitele fucking save them. Yennefer appeared at a loss, gaping at the child like she’d expected a lapdog and found a lioness. 

“Cirilla, darling, that is  _ not _ how we speak to people. Try again, if you would.”

Jaskier watched Ciri inhale, exhale like he’d taught her, mastering herself as best she could as Geralt fucking  _ glowed _ with pride across the table. 

“I’m sorry. My grandmother, who gave me to dad and papa because she didn’t want to raise me, wants me back now that I’m not a baby?”

“That- yes, essentially. Which even  _ I _ think is rather rude, seeing how well you seem to be doing here. Hi, I’m Yennefer.”

Jaskier and Geralt relaxed as the woman  _ finally _ dropped her bullshit, grinning at Ciri. Thank  _ fuck _ she wasn’t some zealot mage, hell bent on “For the Love of Cintra” or some horseshit. He ambled over to Geralt’s seat, plopping his chin unceremoniously on the other man’s head. Ciri hadn’t exactly fixed her sentence  _ nor _ her tone, but the reprimand could wait. 

“Yennefer? Supper? I believe my dear Geralt has bartered for some lamb- love?”

Geralt nodded, still eyeing Yennefer warily as she sat gingerly next to Ciri. 

“I’d love to, thanks. This portaling business gets rather taxing, especially when you have only a vague idea of where you’re supposed to be going.”

Jaskier nodded sympathetically, straightening as Geralt winced under his chin. 

“Marvelous. I’ll get set on that straight away, then. Cirilla, love, would you mind grabbing an onion and some potatoes from the garden? Oh, and herbs, too- you know which ones. Thank you, darling.”

Whatever Yennefer of Vengerberg had expected to find, this was  _ far _ from fucking it. She’d imagined an inn, maybe, a dirty little girl and a bloody witcher and a haggard bard. She would sweep in, fairy-godmother style, rescuing the poor thing Calanthe had led her to believe awaited, whisking her off to the Cintran court to live a life of decadence and misery.

This... simple domesticity, however, had blown her mask clean off her face. To her right sat a clean, well-clothed, polite “almost twelve” year old, as the girl had informed her. She had a black-eyed susan tucked behind her ear, and her fingers fidgeted with it as she read. Diagonally in front of her was the witcher, the famed and brutal assassin, his hair loosely braided as if done by almost-twelve hands and mussed from the recently-departed bard’s chin, shirt just a bit too tight around his shoulders to be his.

The bard in question was humming as he cut vegetables, throwing the lot in the pan with a side of lamb, mixing and tasting and frowning and smiling. He softened, when he looked at his- his  _ daughter _ , and his partner. The witcher’s eyes did the same as he gazed back, sending a message Yennefer couldn’t decipher. Likely about her trustworthiness, her intrusion on this bubble of safety they’d created.

There was no danger here, there were no fleas and guts and gore as Calanthe had so feared. There was... _ love _ , so thick in the air it was palpable, carved into every piece of furniture, every bauble, every child-scribble hung proudly on the wall. There was a lump in Yennefer’s throat, the witcher-Geralt, he had a name, gods- looking at her strangely as she cleared it out. 

She turned back to the child, who had been dutifully studying her book and not-so-subtly following the silent conversation taking place between her parents. She seemed smart, well brought up, if a bit tetchy and blunt the way children could be. She certainly knew her own mind, if her remarks about her grandmother were anything to go by. 

“What’ve you got there, Prince- Ciri?”

“It’s my dad’s. Grandpapa Vesemir made him make it, a way long time ago. It’s teaching me about plants!”

Melitele, this child had  _ the _ fucking Vesemir as her stand-in grandfather. Calanthe would have an  _ aneurysm.  _ Yen grinned at the thought, tuning back in to the child excitedly flipping through time-worn pages. Geralt smiled gently, nodding as she explained each and every plant. Yen  _ hmm _ ed and reacted accordingly, allowing the girl to believe she was teaching her everything she needed to know about yarrow and valerian and mugwort. 

They all looked up as Jaskier called out for Geralt. He looked at them apologetically as Geralt stood, bending over and grabbing the hot roasting pan right out of the flames. Fluidly, he deposited the pan on the counter and a kiss on the bard’s cheek before settling back in his chair and nodding at Cirilla to continue. Holy Melitele, what the fuck  _ was  _ this family?

“He’s a blacksmith, see, and as  _ someone-”  _ Jaskier shot a mock glare at Ciri “-decided they absolutely  _ needed _ my mitts to play soldiers with her friends, this is the way it goes. Thank you, love.”

Cirilla giggled as Jaskier piled four plates high, managing them all in one trip and neatly exchanging the girl’s plate for her book. He flopped into the seat next to Geralt, motioning for them all to start and holy mother of  _ shit _ . Yennefer was accustomed to court food, to moose-lip mousse and truffled game hen and roast peacock. She was  _ not _ accustomed to good food, seasoned properly, and made for the intent of consumption, not impression. 

All that to say she almost moaned around her mouthful of lamb and cleared her plate faster than she’d ever done before. 

It was far too easy to sit back and watch them; Jaskier offered her a nightcap as Geralt drew water for Ciri’s bath and  _ really, it’s getting late, we do have a spare room,  _ and who was she to say no? They bustled around her, calling back and forth across the house in search of spare bed linens and Ciri’s clean nightgown and the peach liquor they’d made last summer. Yennefer felt caught up in the eye of a very peaceful hurricane (a rather powerful coastal storm she’d once had the misfortune to experience). 

She accepted the drink and spare pajamas Jaskier gave her, waving off his apologies as she downed the liquor (delicious) and donned the clothes (comfortable, well worn). Strange; she was likely decades older than he, and yet she felt almost a child again. Nobody had shown her this kind of care or concern,  _ ever. _ The only thing that came to mind was Tissaia stopping her from killing herself all those years ago and-  _ Melitele _ , what a sad-sack she was. 

She heard them bid good-night to Cirilla, softly shutting her door and rejoining her in the main living space. 

“Sorry about that- things tend to get chaotic around here.” Jaskier smiled gently at her, sitting down with Geralt on the loveseat across from her armchair and why the  _ fuck  _ did she feel like she was going to cry again, Melitele above. Nevermind, it was gone; Jaskier pulled the bottle of liquor out, along with two other glasses. A man of taste.

They shared drinks and swapped stories until the wee hours of the morning, until Yen’s head spun and even Geralt let out a yawn. The pair bid her goodnight, showed her to the guest room (which was every bit as cozy and welcoming as the rest of their cottage), and departed, shutting the door gently behind them.

Yennefer waited until their footsteps faded and another door closed before she burst into tears. Blame it on the alcohol, the strangeness, fucking  _ whatever _ . It probably wasn’t normal for her eyes to  _ hurt _ when she cried, though she figured too much repression for too long could do that to a woman. She cried for Istredd, for the love she thought she’d had, for the children she  _ couldn’t  _ have. She cried for the love of strangers, the kindness denied her, for the feeling of clean sheets and soft clothes. She fell asleep, eventually, soothed by the lingering scent of herbs and the lavender tucked into her pillow.

Geralt could positively  _ feel  _ Jaskier thinking on the pillow next to him.

“Spit it out, Jask.”

“It would be insane to propose adoption to a probably century-old mage, right?”

Geralt snorted into his pillow, rolling on his side to face the bard. 

“Jaskier. I love you. It would be insane to propose adoption to a probably century-old mage you just met  _ today. _ Give her a month or two, invite her back.”

Jaskier brightened, settling a hand on Geralt’s forearm and blinking sleepily at him. It didn’t take the bard much longer to drop off; he curled his body into Geralt’s, the witcher burying his face into the head of brown curls. The bard smelled like pepper and rosemary and safety, and Geralt didn’t waste any time following him into sleep. 

He woke the next morning to Jaskier poking his side rather insistently.

“Geralt. Wake up. I think Ciri and Yennefer are trying to make breakfast.”

He groaned as the scent of burning bread made itself known in his nostrils. As long as nothing was on fire, he didn’t see the point in getting up, and he told Jaskier as much. Yennefer was a mage, and Cirilla was  _ eleven _ , for Melitele’s sake. Let them have some fun. 

Jaskier huffed, flopping back down into the bed and reaching down the side for his sketchbook. Geralt watched through one eye as the bard’s face wrinkled, lining his pencil up to the angles of the witcher’s face. The burnt smell had almost dissipated, replaced by the sharp-sweet tang of unripe fruit. Geralt allowed his eyes to close fully; not sleeping, not even meditating, just...relaxing.  _ Taking in the moment _ , as Jask liked to say.

He didn’t want to admit it, and hadn’t, but Cirilla’s comment about them not being married had bitten deeper than he expected. She’d said it out of spite, and since apologized, but it stuck, festering quietly. They’d just...never had time, really, between the endless traveling and the sudden acquisition of a child. Jaskier never brought it up, but then again, he didn’t tend to talk about things that actually mattered.

That was the thing, wasn’t it? Jaskier could talk a storm, covering every single topic  _ except _ what was bothering him. Geralt, over the years, learned to shortcut the rabbithole, get the bard to actually discuss his fucking feelings; not an easy task, but important. He’d never brought up the whole marriage thing, so Geralt hadn’t even thought about it. It was a luxury neither of them had been able to afford.

He was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of whispers outside their door. He straightened, sitting up and grinning at Jaskier’s wry glance. The door swung open dramatically to reveal a flour-covered and simultaneously sticky-looking mage and a beaming, somehow  _ messier _ Ciri. Between them they held a tray piled with toast, what were maybe scrambled eggs (once), and four half-full glasses of juice from pears that were  _ definitely _ not ripe enough to be juiced (how the fuck had that even  _ happened _ ).

He grinned, scooting back on the bed and feeling Jaskier do the same. Ciri carefully set the tray down, worming her way in between the two of them as Yennefer perched on the edge of the bed. 

“Dad! Papa! I present to you...the Cirilla and Yennefer Breakfast Special!”

The girl was all set jaw and searching gaze as Jaskier and Geralt gingerly took a bite of the...Breakfast Special. It was edible; they’d both had worse, and they grinned at the other two as they chewed. Melitele, it was the  _ day _ before Ciri’s birthday, and she’d made them breakfast in bed. If he weren’t a “big, bad witcher,” he would maybe be crying right now. Good thing he had nerves of fucking  _ steel _ . 

Geralt was being fucking  _ weird. _ He kept glancing at Jaskier’s hands as they cleared up the kitchen, staring at them with far too much concentration. Jaskier would be flattered if he wasn’t also (amusedly) concerned. Ciri dragged Yennefer outside after breakfast, which meant the girl was likely trying to charm the mage into doing the chores for her. It was apparently  _ also  _ time for Jaskier to begin teaching her how to cook, if this morning’s egg-butchery was anything to go by. 

Jaskier shuddered. The sentiment? Lovely; both he and Geralt had been slightly misty around the eyes, and Cirilla was  _ still _ puffed up like a proud hen. The food? He did not want to talk about it. He was pretty sure they would be finding bits of egg and pear on their ceiling for  _ weeks.  _ He caught Geralt looking at his hands,  _ again _ , and flipped a handful of water into his face. 

“You know  _ precisely _ what these hands can do, darling. All you need to do is ask.” 

Geralt tensed, blinking soapy water out of his eyes with admirable calm. He finished drying the last plate and set it down, muttering something about  _ need to finish Ciri’s present _ before kissing Jaskier’s cheek and breezing out the door.

Like he’d said: fucking  _ weird _ . Normally, Geralt would’ve tensed in, ah,  _ other _ areas, at the mention of what Jaskier’s hands were capable of.  _ Oh, well.  _ Jaskier finished cleaning the kitchen, grabbing the water pail and knocking twice out of habit before heading back to the well. There was smoke rising from the smithy; odd, considering all that probably needed doing was a bit of last-minute polish, but hey. Jaskier was no blacksmith (he’d only been fucking one for the past seven years).

He returned with a full bucket, skirting the house and cutting to the back garden. As suspected, Ciri had roped Yennefer into helping her weed, chattering away as the mage did most of the work. 

“Cirilla, love, I think we set  _ you _ those chores, not our guest.”

“Papa! Yen said she would stay for my birthday! Pleeeaaaase can she? Please, papa, I promise I’ll finish the weeding all by myself!”

Jaskier eyed the mostly-weeded garden, in a thinly-veiled ploy to avoid looking at his daughter’s eyes. The answer would be yes, of course, because he got the feeling Yennefer had  _ never _ been this happy in her life, and it may enhance the witcher-surprise (hopefully). He pretended to think on it, humming gently as he checked on his snap-peas and carrots. 

“Well, I think that’s fine, so long as Yennefer is willing to put up with us?”

Ciri squealed as Yennefer blushed, just barely bracing herself before her lap was full of overexcited eleven-year-old girl. She mouthed  _ thank you _ over the girl’s head, earning her a mouthful of fluffy, unplaited Ciri-hair. The mage spluttered, causing Ciri to dissolve into giggles. 

“Melitele, has she  _ always _ had this much hair?”

Jaskier groaned, throwing himself dramatically onto the grass as Ciri twisted in Yennefer’s lap to look at him. 

“Before we had her, I thought  _ Geralt’s  _ hair was bad. Melitele’s holy ti- ah. I was wrong, is the point; the one moment of respite we had was when she discovered a pair of scissors one winter and cut herself a  _ lovely  _ new style.” Jaskier grinned as his daughter blinked, remembering the short-on-top, long-in-back haircut that had caused both he and Eskel to go into hysterics, laughing-sobbing amid the piles of hair. 

“Papa, did I  _ really _ ?” Cirilla was serious, her jaw tensing in a way Jaskier  _ knew _ she’d copied off of Geralt. Gods, she was adorable. 

“You did. It was all short up top, like Grandpapa’s, and real long in back, like dad’s. Uncle Eskel and I cried. We had to cut it all off; it was  _ very _ dramatic, and that’s when I knew for sure you were meant to be mine.” 

He winked, letting out a soft  _ ooph _ as she flipped (too fucking fast, and she’s all gangly limbs now, what the fuck) from Yen’s lap into his. He found himself on the familiar receiving end of a large quantity of hair, and almost on reflex began brushing his fingers through it and plaiting it back. 

“Done. Now maybe you can finish your chores while Yennefer and I definitely aren’t discussing birthday secrets?”

Jaskier had  _ definitely _ caught him staring, but Geralt was banking on the fact that his witcher-brand subtlety would obfuscate all of his actions. Jaskier would never know what he’d been up to; the “finishing touches” excuse had been particularly masterful.

Bullshit, and he knew it, laughing quietly to himself in the roar of his forge. Jaskier was suspicious, obviously, but Geralt also knew that he wouldn’t push. Trust had never been a question between them; a bard had to trust a witcher to travel with him, and a witcher had to trust the bard not to fuck up a hunt. It was simply the way of things. There was nothing Geralt hadn’t or wouldn’t tell Jaskier, every shameful secretive scrap laid bare for the other man.

It had been... a long time. He couldn’t properly articulate it, he realized, as he began to heat the small chunk of silver. He hadn’t thought about Blaviken, about too many things, in too long. The weight of the things he had done pressed on him and always would, but the pressure had changed from a yoke about his neck to a rather heavy jacket. He could...take it off, now and then. He could kiss Cirilla on the cheek without feeling like he’d stain her, could chat and pass time easily with other townspeople without smelling fear or disgust. 

Everything came back, sometimes; memories drowned him in the middle of the night, certain smells stopped up his throat so that he couldn’t breathe. But through it all was Jaskier, calm and steadfast. He knew the other man had nightmares, had his own set of things that made him shake in the broad light of day. They were each other’s tether, he supposed, taking turns being the anchor point when the other needed it most.

And, of course, there was Cirilla. Geralt poured the molten metal into the mold he’d created, just barely remembering to use his tongs and not his fingers to pull the blistering crucible out of the flames. The girl was a blessing, in every way he’d once worried she would be a curse. She completed the two of them, gave them a reason to haul their sorry asses out of their loathing-spirals and figure their shit out. 

By the time he’d emerged from his forge, the sun had all but set. He did, however, have two carefully engraved rings in his pocket, and he winced as they jangled together on his way back to the house. He could hear Jaskier humming inside, along with the quiet sounds of Yennefer and Ciri talking. He’d no sooner opened the door than Cirilla was on him, squeezing tight around his middle and talking a league a minute about how Yennefer was going to stay for her birthday, how she’d finished  _ all _ her chores, and roughly seventeen other things that slipped directly out of his head. 

“That’s wonderful news, cub. I’m glad Yennefer gets to stay for your day.” 

The woman smiled as he kissed the tip of Ciri’s nose, sending her scampering back to the armchair to continue her reading. He followed the scent of fresh vegetables and earth to the kitchen, where Jaskier was scrubbing produce like it had personally wronged him. 

“I didn’t realize you had such a vendetta against peppers.”

Geralt was pleased to see he could still make Jaskier jump; it soothed a little of his pride to know he wasn’t going entirely soft. Let Eskel and Lambert joke all they wanted- if he could sneak past the man he’d been with for fifteen-odd years, he certainly wasn’t losing his touch. 

Jaskier grabbed him by the hips and kissed him in a way that made his stomach flip (okay, so he was maybe going a  _ little  _ soft). He felt the bard smile into his mouth, sharp and hungry as the rings pressed into his thigh. The counter quickly bit into Geralt’s legs; he hopped up and leaned down to push further into Jaskier’s mouth, hands grabbing the other man’s shirt and hauling him between well-muscled witcher thighs. 

“Should’ve known you were up to something out there,” Jaskier panted, tipping his forehead into Geralt’s. Geralt only kissed him again, hooking his legs around the small of the bard’s back, shoving his hair back with an impatient hand.

“Papa- oh,  _ gross! _ ” 

Ciri left the kitchen as quickly as she arrived, spewing a litany of various synonyms for “gross” as she fled. She’d reached  _ icky, putrid, vile _ by the time she reached Yennefer, and Jaskier laughed aloud as he moved back to his peppers. 

“So, witcher, are those rings in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Geralt pressed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded as the volume in the living room crescendoed. 

“It can’t be both?” 

“Certainly  _ not _ , and you haven’t even asked me properly, you wretched thing.”

He heard the sound of feet sneaking toward the kitchen as he sank to one knee, pulling one of the rings out of his pocket.  _ Ever the fucking gentleman, I am. _

“Julian Alfred Jaskier Dandelion Buttercup Lark Pankratz, love of my life, father of my child. Marry me?”

Jaskier laughed, pulling him up as he heard Ciri and Yen clap delightedly. 

“Of course I will, you ba- balanced man, how  _ did _ you get down so easily?”

“Smooth,” he muttered, sliding the ring onto the bard’s right hand. It fit, and made all the finger-staring worth it. Not that Geralt was in  _ any way _ opposed to staring at Jaskier’s fingers, mind you. 

“I can wed you, if you want. Mages have that privilege.” 

They started to respond before Ciri cut them off, dashing outside with a “not yet!’ (Melitele, did that child  _ ever _ walk?). 

She came back with a handful of flowers, thistle and buttercup and bluebell ever-so-slightly crushed in her fist. She wove them into his and Jaskier’s hair, adjusting and re-adjusting until, finally, she stepped back, nodding once to Yennefer. And as Geralt slid his hand into Jaskier’s, nothing had ever felt so good as the metal pressing back against his skin. 

Ciri’s eyes flew open the next morning at the barest hint of sunrise. She was twelve, and her dad and papa were married, and Yennefer had promised to show her a spell for her birthday. She snuck out, treading carefully over the creaky flooring and slipping up the currently-unused rose trellis to the roof. Ciri had watched the sun rise over the village every birthday she had since she was old enough to climb the trellis. It was her one secret; she was fairly sure her dad didn’t know, even with his weird witcher-hearing. 

She squinted against the sun, watching as the village slowly woke up. Szymon’s dad opened the bakery windows as the chimney of cobbler down the street began to smoke. Three shapes appeared on the horizon, growing larger as the sun grew brighter at their backs. They almost looked like-

Jaskier awoke to the slamming of the door. It was barely sunup, and he wasn’t fucking ready to face the fact that his little girl was growing up. 

“DAD! PAPA!”

Fuck. He and Geralt raced to the dining room, Geralt’s hand reaching for the sword he sometimes forgot he no longer wore. They were greeted by a beaming (uninjured, thank Melitele) Ciri tugging them to the front door, where they relaxed and stood as Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir rode into town. Melitele’s holy tits, a heart attack was  _ not _ how he’d expected to start off Cirilla’s twelfth birthday. He raised a hand in greeting, grinning as the horses thundered into the stables. They’d made it, thank fuck, and he knew a similar thought was running through Geralt’s head. 

Ciri ran barefoot to them, screeching as Eskel swung her up into his arms and piggy-backed her to the house. 

“Gods, boys, she’s gotten big. She’ll be eating us out of keep and castle next winter, I expect.”

“Next winter? She’s the only pest I have to keep out of my garden right  _ now _ . Eskel, Lambert, Vesemir, lovely to see you all. Apologies for our mild undress; Cirilla here decided screaming for us with no explanation was the best way to rouse us.” He winked at her to let her know she wasn’t serious, and she flashed a grin at him before rushing to her room to get dressed. Poor Yennefer nearly got bowled over in the process; Geralt squeezed his wrist before going to put on more than a pair of trousers and managed to steady her in the hallway. 

“Ah, yes. Boys, this is the esteemed mage Yennefer of Vengerberg. Yen, these are Ciri’s uncles, Eskel and Lambert, and her doting, loving grandpapa, Vesemir.” 

She nodded politely at them, holding her own astonishingly well in a room full of three scarred, twisted, honestly quite terrifying witchers. Though, Jaskier figured, it was probably easier to bear when you realized they were there to celebrate a twelve-year-old’s birthday. 

“Well, now that we’re all here, let’s get started, shall we?”

Geralt had one eye on the baker’s boy and the other on the party around him. The day had gone fairly fucking spectacularly, if he was honest. The townspeople had said nothing about the addition of three witchers and a mage. Jan the baker merely brought out a second cake and set Geralt to cutting. It was odd, these two very separate pieces of his life colliding. Jaskier flitted from group to group; teasing Ciri and her friends gently before introducing Yen to the apothecary and returning to steal a swig from Geralt’s ale all in the span of five minutes.

Geralt, Lambert, and Vesemir leaned against the side of the house, sipping quietly and watching the controlled chaos unfold. Eskel had been abducted by the children and was regaling them with (mostly) watered-down tales of his adventures, occasionally shooting the other three a glance that so clearly said  _ why me _ that had them snorting into their glasses. Geralt held his ale high as Jaskier swung back around, grinning as the other man pouted and plucked it down anyway. They were of a height, Geralt forgot- far too used to holding things out of Ciri’s grasp.

“Unfair. Have you seen how well Yen’s hit it off with Thalia? I’m thinking she might be visiting sooner than we expect, yeah?”

Geralt squinted across the lawn to where Yen stood. She did, admittedly, look rather struck by the, ah, curvaceous apothecary. She  _ giggled _ , which was definitely not in Yennefer’s normal behavior vocabulary. 

“You might just be right.”

Jaskier grinned, draining the last of Geralt’s ale before hailing the bookshop-keeper and drawing him into a conversation. Geralt grimaced at his empty glass.  _ Bastard.  _ Could’ve left him a little, at least. He glanced around, noticing that Lambert had wandered over to relieve Eskel as Vesemir headed to the food-table. The sun had begun to set, and the families with younger children waved cheery goodbyes as they left. Geralt moved to help Jaskier start to clean as the children raced around catching lightning-beetles in the dusk. 

“I think we are  _ officially _ the best parents in the village. These kids have had so much cake I don’t think they’ll sleep for a fucking  _ week. _ ”

Geralt hummed as he packaged the leftover food; it was a custom that all extras were available for those who needed them. He watched the children trip and stumble over each other, exclaiming whenever they saw a bug light up and diving to the ground to catch it. Ciri’s clothes would likely need mending; a practical sewing lesson would be in order, then.

“Oh my gods, Geralt. Look at Ciri and Szymon! I think he just kissed her cheek- I am going to cry. He gave her a flower, Melitele, holy shit. When the  _ fuck _ did she get so old?”

Somewhere, in the far-off distance, a glass shattered. Definitely not in Geralt’s hand. No sir, no bloody palms here. He felt vindicated, though, as he saw Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir glaring at the boy. Jaskier sighed, sounding long-suffering and utterly exhausted.

“ _ None of you are allowed to murder a thirteen year old boy.  _ End of discussion! Make your tight asses useful and help me move these tables to Iskra’s shed, please.” 

Melitele save him from these overprotective witcher  _ brutes _ . It was young love! It was harmless! He definitely still gave the boy a rather threatening smile! He chuckled as Ciri blushed, waving goodbye to Szymon as he ran to catch up with his parents. Jan had saved his ass with the extra cake; he’d have to remember to thank him tomorrow. With every available adult pitching in, and the strength of the additional witchers, their backyard was soon reverted to its original state of only semi-chaos. 

He felt Geralt drape a hand over his waist, nuzzling his face into Jaskier’s neck. He exhaled, reaching a hand up to thread into silver hair. They’d done it, well and truly pulled it off, and now their little lion cub was another year older. He swore to the maiden, the mother, the crone, and anyone else who was listening that he’d never waste a second of it again. 

“I saw Yen leave with that apothecary; I think it’s safe to assume she won’t be back tonight.”

Jaskier felt Geralt smile against his skin, laughter rumbling through his chest into Jaskier’s own. This life that they’d created, the family they’d forged and found...it was enough to scare him. He’d never thought, never  _ allowed _ himself to think he might be able to have this. But he did, he had it.  _ They _ had it, the both of them. 

They turned as Ciri rushed toward them, stumbling back as she collided head-on with Geralt’s torso. She was shaking- crying, Jaskier realized, with no small amount of horror. 

“Hey, love, you’re alright, what is it?”

“I- I- I had the  _ perfect _ day, and I just- I really love you both, a  _ lot. _ ” 

Every fucking time. Every godsdamned time he thought he couldn’t love his daughter more, she went and made his chest feel fit to explode. He and Geralt folded around her, squeezing gently until she could breathe through her sobs.  _ It’s been a long day _ , he mouthed over her head, and Geralt nodded, stroking a hand through her hair. The other witchers walked by, on their way to the inn. 

“Hey now, what’s got our cub all upset?”

Ciri whirled from their arms to Vesemir’s, who chuckled as he caught her up against his chest. 

“Thank you for coming,” she sniffled, offering watery smiles to Lambert and Eskel. They smiled back at her, softer than anything Jaskier had ever seen. Ciri had them wrapped  _ entirely _ around her little finger; it made Jaskier laugh to think of how the Continent would react to all of their perceptions about witchers being shot down by a twelve-year-old girl leaking profusely from her eyes. 

Ciri eventually released Vesemir, hugging Eskel and Lambert tightly before grabbing on to Jaskier and Geralt’s hands and guiding them towards the house. 

Jaskier would take that “Best Dads” trophy, now, thank you very much. 

**Author's Note:**

> i did it! i did a thing! [oddconstellation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts) is, as always, a gem and my biggest supporter, and to whom I send things like "I want so badly for Jaskier to talk about marriage being a capitalist institution even though capitalism doesn't technically exist."  
> huge huge thanks to [Superherogeek1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superherogeek1/pseuds/Superherogeek1) for literally inspiring a huge chunk of this with their comment; you guys really do help me more than you think, and I love to hear from you!!  
> come catch up with me on [tumblr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/)!  
> xoxoxoxoxo I love you all so much


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